


buried in time

by addandsubtract



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: Wufei is stiff-legged and straight-backed walking up the stone path to Heero’s cottage, already second guessing the urge to come here.
Relationships: Chang Wufei/Heero Yuy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	buried in time

**Author's Note:**

> decided to use my time stuck inside to do a rewatch, which was a great decision. obviously the outcome of that is a renewed desire to write fic. apologies for all typos.

Wufei is stiff-legged and straight-backed walking up the stone path to Heero’s cottage, already second guessing the urge to come here. He hasn’t seen Heero in three years, but neither have any of the other pilots. It isn’t personal, but that doesn’t make it not purposeful. Heero hasn’t sent any of them an updated address, however, so he’s either here, or he’s dropped out of contact, disengaging from them permanently. Wufei is hoping for the former. He made the taxi driver drop him off a mile away, and even that short hike hadn’t been easy on his battered body. Showing up unannounced is a gamble, but he’s put himself through worse, he reasons, and if it turns out Heero is long gone, he’ll find another place to plant his feet for a little while.

His ribs ache when he breathes too deeply, and pain lances through his shoulder when he shifts his weight, so he does his best not to do either. He’s slow on the short steps up to the porch, holding onto the railing for support, hatred of his injured body searing into him. He knocks, using the code the five of them had agreed on all those years ago: three lighter knocks, one heavier, one lighter, two heavier.

He waits. If he knows Heero at all, he’ll be checking to make sure it really is one of them — Wufei can’t see any cameras but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. He’s never been as technologically adept as Heero, and his knowledge in that area hasn’t grown an enormous amount in the years since the war ended. He leans back against the porch railing, letting his eyes close. Saving his strength in case of any surprises.

After a few minutes he hears noises from the side of the house: light footfalls, the soft swish of fabric. Recognizable.

“Wufei,” Heero says. “It’s been awhile.”

Wufei opens his eyes, and sees Heero emerging from around the corner. He must’ve been out back. He sounds the same, voice deadpan and nasal, but he’s filled out into broad shoulders and a wide chest, he’s tanner than Wufei thought possible, and there’s dirt on his left cheek. He’s wearing gardening gloves. The most comforting thing about him is the way his face betrays nothing. Wufei nods.

“The door is unlocked,” Heero says, approaching the front stairs, stripping the gloves off while he walks. “You can go inside.”

“I’m not impressed with your security,” Wufei says, reaching for humor, though he’s unsure how Heero will take it. The door does indeed open easily when he turns the knob, swinging on silent hinges, and he steps inside. His shoulder is throbbing. He’s exhausted. He’s been worse, but he doesn’t relish that fact. He hears Heero’s shoes on the front mat, hears him close the door behind him, and then they’re inside, and, Wufei assumes, out of the view of any prying eyes.

Heero’s cottage is mainly one big room, a combination living room, dining room, and kitchen, with a short hallway off to the left leading to three other rooms — presumably Heero’s bedroom, a bathroom, and either a guest room or an office. Knowing Heero, the latter is more likely. He can’t imagine anyone has visited Heero recently, especially given that Wufei knows most of the people who potentially would. The surrounding area is sparsely populated, so any locals would be few and far between as well.

The back wall of the house is almost entirely made up of windows, with two glass sliding doors leading out to a back porch and then down into a huge garden. Wufei clearly interrupted whatever work Heero was doing out there. From the map Wufei pulled up before he left the hospital there’s also easy access to the ocean further down the road, and no other houses within a few miles. Heero owns most of the land, even if he’s left it to its own devices.

“Are you in the middle of a mission?” Heero asks. 

Wufei turns to look at where he’s leaning against the kitchen island. He’s relaxed, arms folded over his chest, one leg crossed over the other. Not worried about anyone who could potentially have followed Wufei here, though Wufei can’t be sure if that’s faith in Wufei’s skills or Heero’s own. His biceps are impressive, but he isn’t much taller than the last time Wufei saw him. Wufei instinctively wonders who would win if they were to spar against each other, though he’s in no shape for it at the moment. He shakes his head.

“At the end, then,” Heero says, nodding to himself. “What do I need to know?”

“I don’t want to impose,” Wufei says.

“You already have. I don’t mind.”

“In that case, I’m going to sit,” Wufei says. He toes off his shoes as carefully as he can and does so, pulling a chair out from the dining room table and putting his back to the wall, Heero to his left. “I was on a mission nearby, in Lisbon. I got shot in the shoulder — a through and through — and broke two ribs during my extraction.”

“Ah.”

Wufei bites the inside of his cheek and then forces out the words through gritted teeth. “I hate hospitals.”

Heero does not comment on the admission. “Did you report in? Sally knows where you are?”

“Yes and no,” Wufei says. “She knows I’m recuperating. I’ve been put on leave for at least one month and will need to pass the required medical exams before I return to duty. However, it is not my place to reveal your location to Sally.”

Heero nods again, apparently satisfied. “There is a couch in my office that folds out into a bed. I’ll sleep there, and you will take my bed.”

Wufei opens his mouth to protest, but Heero’s expression is one that Wufei recognizes from the Gundam hanger on Peacemillion: placidly stubborn. Then, and the years immediately following, Wufei wouldn’t have allowed the concession, but he’s grown enough to know when to pick his battles.

“Thank you,” Wufei says. “I will do my best not to be a disruption.”

“You’ll find that there is not much to disrupt,” Heero says, voice dry. He doesn’t smile, but the good humor is there in his expression. He’s grown too, Wufei realizes, in more than just appearance. It’s an idiotic thing to be surprised by, but Heero has become the most reclusive of the five of them. Wufei has seen each of the other pilots at least once in the last year, and Quatre much more frequently than that. “I still have weeding to do, is there anything else you need from me?”

“No,” Wufei says. “I think I may — take a nap, if you don’t mind.”

Heero shakes his head. “It’s the second door on the right.”

“Thank you,” Wufei says, and hauls himself to his feet, body protesting. He’ll have to change his bandages soon.

“There are painkillers in the bathroom. Don’t take more than two.”

“Yuy, I’m not a child,” Wufei says, matching Heero’s dry humor from earlier. “I’m certain I’ll be able to determine the correct dosage.”

“If you say so.” Heero pushes off of the kitchen island, out of his casual lean, and Wufei spares a moment to appreciate the economy of his movement, even after all these years, and another to be envious of the ease of his body. Wufei feels ancient and brittle, already chafing at how limited he is. He watches Heero slide open the glass doors and head down the stairs back into the garden. After a moment, he turns away to walk down the hallway.

Wufei swallows one of the pills in Heero’s medicine cabinet, and then steps into Heero’s room. The bag he has slung over his shoulder is light, carrying only the necessities — a change of clothes, a toothbrush, an emergency medical kit, his gun and gun maintenance tools, an extra clip of ammunition, a silencer, and a small towel — but he’s still glad to set it on the floor by the door. The bed is neatly made, and it’s clear that Heero spends very little time here — there are no personal touches on the walls or on top of the dresser, and no extraneous furniture. The curtains covering the windows make the light dim and soft. There’s also no sign of a gun or gun safe, though if Heero has one, he could easily keep it in his office. Wufei decides it’s not important for now, and eases himself onto the bed. He’s lucky he’s never found it difficult to sleep in less than ideal circumstances, and even with his injuries in mind this room is more than serviceable. He sets his weapon on the bedside table, but he doesn’t expect to use it.

He falls asleep almost immediately, and wakes up, slightly disoriented, to find that the sun has started to go down. It takes him a moment to figure out what woke him, but then he hears the sounds of Heero in the kitchen: the soft clatter of metal — a pan on the stove — and the swish of the small refrigerator closing. Not loud, but enough to rouse him.

His shoulder is propped up slightly using a pillow, more to keep him from accidentally rolling onto it than the need for elevation. The sheets twisted around his legs tell him he was moving while he slept, tossing. It’s unusual for him — most of the time he sleeps calm and still, like the dead. Painkillers and pain will do odd things to the unconscious brain, however.

The air in the room is slightly stale now. The pillow smells like Heero’s shampoo. Wufei has never shared a bed long enough to get used to it — never been adept enough at sharing a bed to do it for long — and so even that is odd. He sits up when Heero pushes the bedroom door open, already gathering his hair back into its usual ponytail.

“Dinner,” Heero says, eyes doing a cursory scan of the room before landing on Wufei’s face. “I don’t remember you being picky.”

“I’m not,” Wufei says. “I’ll be right out.”

They don’t talk much while they eat. Wufei compliments Heero’s cooking — a simple curry with chicken, potatoes, onions, and carrots — which Heero shrugs off. Heero lets Wufei take the seat against the wall, entirely comfortable having his back to the center of the room. He does live here, after all, but Wufei is more curious about whether he’s been keeping his soldier instincts sharp, or whether he has truly allowed himself to trust peace.

Or at least trust Sally, Une, and Wufei, not to mention Relena, to keep the peace.

“Let me see your shoulder after dinner,” Heero says. 

Wufei nods. “What have you been doing here? Besides gardening.”

“If you mean for work, I’ve found a satisfactory niche testing computer systems for vulnerabilities. It’s remote, and requires no face-to-face contact.”

“So as not to be recognized?”

Heero tilts his head to the side, which seems akin to a shrug. “Not all of us are Quatre, perfectly happy to be identified as an ex-Gundam pilot. Or you, even.”

“I think one of me is quite enough,” Wufei says. He’s always been extremely aware of his limitations and his mistakes. He’s aware of how close he came to destroying the peace they’d worked so hard to achieve. 

He no longer feels guilt about his role in Dekim Barton’s uprising, and similarly feels no guilt about the trauma that brought him to that place, but Heero is the reason he’d been able to pull himself out of it. He’d needed Heero then, his words and actions both, even if he hadn’t properly admitted it to himself until after he’d joined the Preventers. And if he’s being honest, he knows that half the reason he joined the Preventers is because he was afraid that if left to his own devices he’d end up there again, in the darkness and anger. 

Heero raises his eyebrows. “I think you’d have to ask Sally if she’d like another of you, because you may be surprised.” He shakes his head. “When Une asked if I’d join the Preventers I did consider it, but I made a promise to myself that I was done killing, even though I have few enough skills besides carnage.”

Wufei nods; he didn’t know specifically, but he’s not surprised. Une likely asked all of the Gundam pilots if they’d join, but only Wufei took her up on her offer. “Your current occupation implies otherwise, but I take your point. You did more than enough. No one can fault you.”

Heero nods, but his face is stormy. Wufei wonders who he’s trying to convince — Wufei, Relena, the other pilots? Or himself? Wufei can’t imagine anyone blaming him, can’t imagine any of them would think to ask him for more than he’s already done.

“If you’re finished, let me take a look at your stitches.” Heero waits for Wufei to incline his head, and stands, picking up their dirty dishes and setting them in the sink. He moves into the bathroom for a first aid kit, unsurprisingly larger and more well stocked than most homes. Wufei starts the process of wrestling with the buttons on his overshirt, shrugging it off of his shoulders and draping it on the chair behind him. The tank top underneath is harder, but he manages to pull it over his head one-handed without stretching his ribs too much.

“I would have helped you,” Heero says, pulling a chair closer and starting in on the ends of the bandages wrapped around Wufei’s shoulder. His eyes flick over Wufei’s exposed chest, the bruises on his side where he took the most impact, and then back up to his face.

“I’m not an invalid.” Wufei keeps the annoyance out of his voice as best he can, knowing that the wave of irritation is self-directed. What an idiot he is — letting a hired mercenary get a good shot off and then having to escape out the third floor window. An unforgivable amateur mistake.

Heero chuckles, the sound soft and warm. Wufei has never heard it before. He’s heard Heero’s laughter in battle, the condescending, joyful sound as he took Oz suits down without breaking a sweat, but this is new. It makes Wufei’s skin prickle. Heero says, “I’ve been told I’m a bad patient, but I would be unsurprised to find that you’re worse.”

Wufei feels his face go warm. “I haven’t thrown anything at you yet, so you’re getting off easy.”

“Yet,” Heero says. He unwraps the last of the bandages, and sets about cleaning the messy knot of stitches, disinfecting, and rolling a new wrap of bandage overtop, tight enough not to shift much but loose enough to allow for circulation and airflow. “Done.”

“Thank you.” Wufei tugs his tank top over his head, and bites back a sigh when he feels the warmth of Heero’s fingers on his sides, helping him pull it into place. It is without a doubt easier than doing it himself.

“You’re welcome. What do you usually do before bed?”

Wufei shrugs, though the movement sends a thrum of pain down his side. “Often I’ll train, which is not an option. I may meditate or read.”

“I have work I should finish this evening,” Heero says. “Do you need anything before I go? I’ll be difficult to interrupt once I’ve started.”

“I think I can manage,” Wufei says. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Heero says, “I’d rather not,” and stands, packing up the first aid supplies. “But I’ll leave you to it.”

Wufei sleeps heavily that first night, with no unusual dreams that he remembers, and it doesn’t take him long to fall into the sway of Heero’s routine. Heero wakes early and works out, eats breakfast, gardens for several hours, often eating a small lunch while he does so, and then works either before or after dinner. Sometimes he works and eats. Wufei fits himself into that schedule as best he can.

Mostly this involves meals together, which Heero generally cooks, and the pauses in routine while Heero helps Wufei with his injuries. Heero isn’t tentative, but he’s gentler than Wufei would have expected if he’d thought about it. Wufei doesn’t complain when Heero helps him into or out of clothing, the same way he doesn’t complain when Heero begins lending Wufei clothes. He’s in Heero’s debt, to some extent, and despite wanting full independence, he’s aware that the amount of coddling he gets from Heero — if it can even be called that — is exponentially less than what he’d receive in the hospital.

Heero leads a relaxing life, even if Wufei can’t quite wrap his mind around him being satisfied by it. Wufei is too restless and too driven to be content without a clear goal in mind. He doesn’t even like having more than a week of downtime between assignments. Sally calls him an obstinate workaholic, but Wufei doesn’t want to have to find ways to fill the endless expanse of time in front of him. He’d rather know that he was doing good now, in this very moment, and in every moment.

The last time he was left unattended, his principals led him so astray that it took months before he could look Trowa or Duo in the eye.

After about a week, Wufei gives up on forcing his body back into shape with exercises and meditation, and takes a book out onto the back porch. He can’t focus, however, his eyes inevitably drawn back to Heero, weeding and watering, diligently checking for signs of growth or disease, with gloves on or dirt underneath his fingernails, kneeling carelessly in the sunlight. He looks at ease here, among the plants he’s cultivating.

Heero must know that Wufei is watching him — Heero, who wakes with the sun and goes for a run every morning, who knows Wufei is up before he’s done more than shift his head to look at the clock, whose hands are still calloused, his nails neat and short. Wufei wondered, at first, if the instincts were still there but now it seems foolish. Of course they are. This is Heero at peace, but he’s still Heero. Trained child assassin, ex-terrorist, and relentless, single-minded soldier — to unlearn all of that would be to become someone entirely new.

Wufei sets the book aside, giving up even the semblance of focusing elsewhere. He’s not embarrassed. He’s interested. Heero does not even glance his way, still picking is way through the flowerbeds — sunflowers, peonies, hibiscus, lavender, asters, delphiniums — past the herbs — basil, mint, rosemary, thyme, parsley, chives — to the vegetables — carrots, tomatoes, peppers, cabbage, onions, cauliflower, scallions. He told Wufei he’s thinking about pumpkins, or watermelon. He wants to plant fruit trees and collect his own lemons and peaches. Wufei sits back on his hands and watches the muscles in Heero’s thighs bunch when he crouches, touches leaves, turning them over in his hands. He could crush them easily, and he doesn’t. 

When he leans down, his bangs fall into his eyes the same way they did when he was fifteen, leaning against the corrugated metal wall of Sally’s transport ship, convincing Wufei to take Zero out to fight, confident that Wufei would join them on their way to Peacemillion. That Zero would show him the path to take.

Wufei watches, and Heero gardens. Eventually, Heero straightens up, and approaches the stairs, easing himself down beside Wufei.

“Are you happy here?” Wufei asks. He’s been trying to formulate the question all morning, attempting to find a way to ask that won’t sound skeptical, but in the end it’s easiest just to lay it down, let Heero take what he wants from it.

“Hm,” Heero says, like he’s considering. He tilts his head, looks at Wufei through his bangs. He has a surprisingly sensitive mouth for someone who smiles so little.

“Feel free to ignore the question if you don’t want to answer.” Wufei doesn’t bristle as easily as he once did — he’s not so at the whim of his feelings, so intense, sweeping through him like a summer thunderstorm — but he does have to push away the worry that Heero doesn’t want to be known by him, or even by anyone. After all, he’s been alone out here all this time by choice. He will just have to be comforted by the fact that Heero has never minced words. He won’t now.

“It’s not that,” Heero says. “It’s more — what does happy mean? I’ve never been sure how to quantify it. I’m content, here, satisfied by my work and my chosen leisure, but more than that I don’t know.”

“Is that good enough for you? Are you fulfilled?”

Heero shakes his head. “I’m not sure what that means, either. I used to have a mission — not just orders from Dr J, not just individual fights and skirmishes, but a calling. I never spared more than a moment to whether I was fulfilled, only if I was performing to the best of my abilities, following my instincts and my sense of right or wrong. Now I have this.” He gestures at the house, the garden. “It’s not as grand as being a weapon for good, but it’s mine.”

“I understand,” Wufei says. 

“Do you? You’ve always been a tool for justice, haven’t you?”

“In a way, I have always followed my convictions, for better or for worse. But now — hm. Now there is paperwork, and diplomacy and accrued vacation time. It’s a job. The work is important, meaningful, but my intentions are no longer to go out in a blaze of glory.”

“I suppose Sally would be furious if you did.”

“She would, but that moment passed when you let Zero plummet into the water with you inside.”

Heero’s eyebrows go up. Wufei supposes he has never said this to Heero, though he’s assumed it was implied. In that moment Heero proved to him that humanity, individual human lives, should come before his need for combat. Wufei has lived with that, and the need to protect that it stoked in him, in every moment since.

“I didn’t realize,” Heero says. He looks almost embarrassed, the line of his mouth soft in the corners as he faintly frowns.

“That’s fine,” Wufei says. “It doesn’t change my mind.” He reaches out to pat Heero’s hand, and goes back to his book, leaving Heero to his thoughts.

Heero sits with this revelation and doesn’t prod Wufei further, for a time. Wufei’s shoulder is healing nicely — as he suspected, it’s his ribs that are really going to slow him down. There are moments when Wufei catches Heero looking at him, eyes intent underneath the fringe of his hair. Wufei considers asking after his thoughts, considers how likely Heero is to share, and lets him take his own time. If Heero has pressing questions, he’ll ask. If he has needs, he’ll make them known. Wufei can wait him out. Wufei is not patient in all things, but he can be patient about this.

Wufei sends Sally an update every several days, keeping her apprised of his recovery. While she does not seem impatient for his return, the Preventers rely on his particular skillset for many of the more dangerous ops.

“You are worried about your colleagues,” Heero says, eyes on Wufei as Wufei stows his mobile phone back into his pocket. Heero’s seated at the dining room table with his laptop — not working on anything important, clearly, and paying more attention to Wufei’s conversation with Sally than Wufei had assumed.

“They are all very capable,” Wufei says. “However —”

“You are an ex Gundam pilot,” Heero finishes for him.

“I am uniquely qualified,” Wufei says, diplomatically.

Heero snorts, shaking his head. “So they find the most precarious situations and send you there.”

Wufei raises his eyebrows. “It’s what I signed up for.”

“In some ways I envy you,” Heero says. His voice is deadpan, but his eyes are searching. “In many ways, even. You have a clear purpose, and a usefulness.”

“And the rest?”

“I think if you’d really moved on from the war you wouldn’t need to fight.”

“Ah,” Wufei says, and manages a smile. “Moved on from the war? Ha! I’m not sure that’s possible. If you’ve truly managed that then you’re even stronger than I ever imagined.”

Heero is quiet for a long moment, turning the words over. They’ve both become more accustomed to nuance. “I never expected to be able to — I never expected to be alive. So have I succeeded in putting the war behind me? Certainly not. But I’m trying not to be bound by the life I thought possible then. All I can do is move forward.”

“That’s all any of us can do. In my case,” Wufei pauses, searching for the correct words. “I suppose I need to feel useful, as you said — I need to contribute to the peace I both helped build and nearly destroyed.”

The moment hangs there between them, and it’s only because Wufei is watching Heero closely that he can see when Heero makes some kind of decision — it’s clear in the slight relaxing of his shoulders, in the soft exhale of his breath, and in the tightness of his nod. Wufei doesn’t know yet what decision he’s made, but the fact of it makes him stand straighter, waiting.

Heero pushes himself up, closes his laptop decisively, and tucks the chair in, turning toward Wufei. “I was only ever useful to other people — a soldier, a weapon,” Heero says, approaching Wufei like the inevitable encroaching sea as the tide comes in. “I lived for the benefit of other people. Now I am trying learn how to do that for myself.” Heero’s hands come up to frame Wufei’s face, and he pauses again, simply looking. His skin is warm and dry, and Wufei wonders what he sees on Wufei’s face. Whatever it is — the softness of his mouth? the sharpness of his eyes? — it makes Heero smile slightly. 

That’s when Heero kisses him.

Wufei stays still and lets him, not surprised, exactly, but not prepared either. To say he’s never thought about this would be a lie, but contemplating the iron control Heero has over his body and the way he’s twice radically changed Wufei’s life does not make this moment inevitable either.

Heero bites into Wufei’s mouth, hard enough to sting but not to break the skin, and that’s enough to push Wufei into motion.

“Why?” he asks, moving a hand to touch Heero’s waist, his baggy t-shirt hiding the core of muscle underneath. He’s warm against Wufei’s palm.

Heero’s eyes burn cold blue, gaze steady as he meets Wufei’s. “Because I want to.”

Wufei nods. It’s a good enough answer. Heero leans in to kiss him again, and Wufei kisses back. He’s unpracticed — not completely inexperienced, but his partners have been few and far between, and his relationships have not been serious or particularly long-lived. Heero doesn’t seem to care or even notice, one of his hands sliding down from Wufei’s face to cup the back of his neck and pull him further in. 

The shift in balance pulls at Wufei’s ribs, making him wince, and Heero takes a whole step back, hands falling to his sides. Wufei smiles, knowing it’ll look odd, crooked on his face, and not caring.

“It’s fine,” he says. “We just have to be careful.”

Heero’s eyes rake from the top of his head to his feet, as if examining him for sudden bleeding, and then he nods, curt. _Mission accepted_ , as it were.

The times he allowed himself to think about this, he imagined them both healthy and aggressive with it, hands gripping, fingernails scratching, teeth biting. He imagined them battling for supremacy and enjoying the fight. The truth isn’t anything like that, and Wufei could blame it on his own infirmity, but ultimately they’ve both changed. Heero’s fingernails have potting soil underneath them, not blood. Wufei pays taxes. Neither of them are going through every moment expecting to die.

Heero’s mouth is soft, careful at first, and then he uses slightly more pressure, feeling things out. Wufei lets his fingers catch in Heero’s shirt again, and then slide underneath, touching bare skin — the expanse of his ribs, the cut of his stomach, the ridge of his hip bone. Heero doesn’t shudder at the contact, but he does pull in a quick breath, acknowledgment that it feels good.

It takes a few minutes for Heero to reach out to him again. His hands are tentative, calloused and rough to the touch, but cautious and gentle when brushing Wufei’s neck, the back of his head. Heero tugs at the elastic binding Wufei’s ponytail and then slides his fingers into Wufei’s hair, scrunching it between his fingers as it falls around Wufei’s face.

“What do you want?” Wufei asks. His mouth hums from kissing Heero, pleasantly used. The arousal is curling helplessly through him, and even Heero is breathing quickly, his cheeks pink.

Heero’s eyebrow quirks, another moment of unexpected humor, before he sinks gracefully to his knees. Wufei’s hand nearly gets caught in his shirt, grasping onto nothing, eyes widening in surprise. They’re still in the middle of the main room, sunlight pouring through the windows, and Heero is pulling at the waistband of Wufei’s borrowed pants, looking up at Wufei with amusement and desire scrawled across his face.

“Have you done this before?” Wufei asks before he can help himself.

“Once or twice,” Heero says. “Is that a problem?”

Wufei shakes his head, watching as Heero pushes up Wufei’s loose tunic with one hand, kissing his stomach, his hip bones, while Wufei’s pants pool on the floor around his ankles. 

Wufei sucks in a quick breath. “You don’t have to, though, if — just because I’m injured —”

“It did occur to me that this might be easier,” Heero says. “But I want to.”

Wufei almost asks if he’s sure, but is saved from the embarrassment when Heero scrapes his teeth over the top of Wufei’s thigh, and sucks the head of Wufei’s dick into his mouth.

Wufei can’t help the sound that escapes, halfway between a moan and a surprised gasp. He gropes for Heero’s hand, still pressed against Wufei’s stomach, and holds him there, almost for support. He doesn’t want to rush Heero or put any pressure on him, but it’s taking all of his concentration not to touch Heero’s hair, thread his fingers into it and yank.

When Wufei looks down, Heero’s eyes are still on him, carefully considering Wufei’s face as he slowly sinks further down.

This is not going to take long at all.

Heero is clearly not an expert — this is likely the sloppiest thing Wufei has ever seen him do, saliva dripping down to his chin, working hard to get as much of Wufei’s dick into his mouth as he can — but he looks unbelievable, skin flushed, sweat starting to stick his bangs to his forehead, looking up at Wufei through thick eyelashes. Wufei concentrates on keeping his breathing even and his body steady. Heero will pull away again if he makes any kind of pained noise.

Heero’s fingers dig into Wufei’s stomach, and Wufei keeps one hand there, holding onto him. Heero swallows and swallows, but it doesn’t keep him from getting messy. His mouth is warm and wet around Wufei, and when he hums Wufei shudders, eyes slipping closed for just a moment. The slick sounds of Heero’s mouth on him are almost more than Wufei can take.

The movement of Heero’s mouth is diligent, the way he is about anything he puts his mind to, and after what feels like no time at all, Wufei grunts and says, “Heero, I’m close.”

Heero stays there for another moment, tongue pressing against the underside, before he pulls back, free hand coming up to wrap around Wufei’s dick, wet with saliva, and start moving. It takes three, four, five strokes before Wufei bites back a curse, hips working in pulses as he comes in Heero’s hand. Heero eyes are still on Wufei’s face, watching his eyelids flutter, watching him bite into his lip while the pleasure sings through him.

There’s a moment where they stay there, motionless, Wufei swaying slightly, before he carefully, if shakily, sits bare-assed on the floor. He says, “That was —” and cuts himself off, shaking his head. His face must be red.

Heero wipes his hand on his shirt and tugs it over his head, letting it fall to the floor next to him. Wufei can see where he’s tenting up his shorts. The slightly smug smile on Heero’s face.

“Here,” he says, reaching forward. “Let me.”

Heero shifts back, eyes narrowing as he tries to gauge the state of Wufei’s injuries, and Wufei rolls his eyes. 

“It’s my non-dominant shoulder.”

“I can take care of it myself —”

“No,” Wufei says, smiling, and reaching out again. This time Heero stays put, helpfully lifting his hips when Wufei pulls at the ties of his shorts and then tugs them down, along with his underwear.

“Plaid, really?” Wufei asks.

Heero shrugs. “Duo got me a 24-pack as a housewarming present and it seemed wasteful not to use them.”

“Ah,” Wufei says. They’re in the middle of the floor, nothing like lube anywhere nearby, so he licks his palm the way he would as a teenager during the war and wraps his hand around Heero’s dick.

Heero grunts, propping himself up with one hand, and then bites into his bottom lip. Wufei leans forward to kiss him again.

Something about this surprises Heero, and it takes him half a second to respond. Wufei realizes why, tasting the saltiness of his own precome in Heero’s mouth, but doesn’t much care. Heero surges up, doing his best to get closer despite how tangled they both are in their clothes, and deepens the kiss, his hips working into the grasp of Wufei’s hand. Wufei is flattered that he’s as aroused as he is, just from sucking Wufei off.

For a few moments, Wufei worries that his relative inexperience will show through, but again Heero doesn’t seem to care. Wufei feels his dick twitch when Wufei bites into his lip, soothing the sting with his tongue. Wufei rubs his thumb over the slick head, spreading the precome around, noting the way Heero huffs a quiet gasp into his mouth, thighs tensing as he humps forward. Heero’s body is fluid and expressive, asking for more, and Wufei does his best to give it to him.

In the end, Heero doesn’t last much longer than Wufei did, groaning against Wufei’s mouth as he comes into the curve of Wufei’s palm. They kiss, sloppy and sated, for a few minutes longer, before settling back and stretching out, half-clothed, on the floor. Wufei reaches out and wipes his hand on Heero’s discarded shirt, laughing at the expression on Heero’s face.

“It was already dirty, and you have more clothes than I do,” Wufei says, reasonably. He feels lighthearted, buoyant, and is willing to let himself be carried along by it.

“Thank you,” Heero says, after a moment. It’s unexpected. Wufei looks up at finds Heero looking at him already, his expression inscrutable.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Wufei says. “I wasn’t doing you a favor.”

“Hm.” Heero’s eyes search Wufei’s face, and then something in him relaxes slightly. Wufei can’t explain how that changes his face, only that it does. “In that case, I take it back.”

“Good,” Wufei says. He stretches, and then winces when the motion pulls at his ribs. “When I can get off this floor again I’m going to shower.”

“That seems like a good plan,” Heero says, and hefts himself to his feet, pulling up his shorts as he goes. “Let me know if you need help.”

Wufei can’t decide if he means help getting off the floor or in the shower, but he doesn’t ask.

The sex changes things less than Wufei expected. There’s a slightly tense moment over dinner where Heero says, “I still doubt I can share a bed, if you were considering it.”

Wufei shakes his head, and says, “No, I don’t think I can share either. I’ve never been very successful at that.” One of a myriad of reasons that his relationships haven’t historically lasted very long.

Heero relaxes again, minute but noticeable to Wufei, who says, dryly, “Very few things would be a dealbreaker for me, Heero. I’m just as damaged as you are, remember?”

Heero nods, and Wufei sets the exchange aside to think about later.

Over the next several days they have sex a few more times, once on the couch in the living room, once on the back porch with the sun beating down on them, and once in the bedroom, Heero’s hands gripping the sheets as Wufei moves against him. It’s like now that the possibility of it is there neither of them can find any reason not to give into the untherthered impulse of it. 

Wufei sleeps, alone, in Heero’s bed, and Heero stays on the pullout in his office. It doesn’t feel like a loss, really — Heero is giving in his own ways, careful with Wufei’s injuries, tactile in small amounts. He clasps the back of Wufei’s neck on his way to the coffee pot, while Wufei is cautiously sipping tea at the kitchen island. He shows Wufei how to weed in the garden, finally, pointing out new buds and ripening fruit, fingers both firm and gentle on Wufei’s wrists. Wufei thinks about the hardened, brutal boy that he was trained to be, and the ways that life after the war has both softened and strengthened him.

“Why are you here alone?” Wufei asks. It’s night, and they’re leaning against the back porch, watching bats swoop in after the bugs flitting among the plants.

“I wanted to get to know myself,” Heero says. He turns his head, squinting at Wufei, half-illuminated by the moonlight. “I don’t mind that you’re here, though.”

“You would have told me?”

“Yes,” Heero says. “I would have pawned you off on Quatre.”

Wufei laughs. It’s true that he could have gone anywhere. He wasn’t too injured to travel. He could have rented a hotel room, or taken a shuttle out to one of the other pilots, or simply gone back to his apartment near the Preventers building. Instead he’s here. At the time it was mostly curiosity and convenience, but he thinks there could have been some hope in there too. He’s always felt that Heero, of all of them, understood him best.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Wufei says.

Heero nods. “Me too.”

The day that Wufei gets off the phone with Sally, knowing he’ll be leaving in 48 hours, he turns to Heero and says, “Do you ever go to the beach?”

“Sometimes. More often when it’s cooler. Did you want to go?”

“Yes, please,” Wufei says. His eyes catch on a mark his teeth left on Heero’s neck, just below his jaw. Not even enough time left now to see it all the way healed. He doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t reach out to put his thumb against it, even though he wants to.

After lunch they walk the long, pebbled road to the top of the dunes, and pick their way down to the beach below. The dune grasses are long and thick, doing their job to hold the sand in place, but there’s a footpath down over the edge. Wufei takes off his shoes and holds them in one hand, letting his toes sink in as they walk.

“I never really understood about oceans, growing up in the colonies. I understood what they were, of course, but I could never wrap my mind around why they were so important — in literature and such.” Wufei hears Heero come to a stop beside him, but he doesn’t look over, instead watching the waves roll up over the shore, dragging shells and fragments of rock in their wake.

“I never thought about it until I was traveling to Sanq with Quatre,” Heero says. “Of course, Quatre could see the beauty in anything, but I hadn’t given it much thought. I couldn’t articulate what it was that I didn’t like.”

“And now?”

Heero makes a considering noise. “Back then, I distrusted anything I couldn’t adequately factor into my battle calculations. I suppose it was a kind of fear. Now I find it calming — the sea can be unpredictable, but it’s reliable too, in its own way.”

“You’ve had a lot of time to think, being here on your own for so long.”

Heero nods. “Yes. But that was the point.”

Wufei steps down the beach, letting the water wash up over his feet and recede, leaving pockets of air behind where crabs have burrowed as the tide has gone out. The sun glints off the water, and Wufei shades his eyes with his hand, staring out over the endless expanse of it. It’s easy to feel small, inconsequential, standing next to the sea. Harder to forget how close Zechs came to destroying all of it.

“So,” Heero says, coming to a stop next to him. His hands are in the pockets of his shorts, so casual. His shoulders are firm but not tense. “What did Sally have to say?”

“I have to leave in 48 hours,” Wufei says.

“They have a mission for you,” Heero says, though the glance he throws Wufei’s way means it’s more a question than a statement of fact.

“Yes,” Wufei admits. “I’m nearly healed, and it’s urgent enough that they’re doing the readiness testing in the field.”

“I can imagine you’re impatient to get back.”

“Yes,” Wufei says, because he is. As the strength has returned to his shoulder, his desire for action has been climbing. He’s been idle too long. He’s not used to it, and despite how he’s appreciated his time here, he doesn’t like it. “Though I have to admit —” He cuts himself off before completing the sentence. He’s not sure what they’re doing here, not sure enough of the ground underneath his feet. It makes him hesitant.

He has always been good at standing up to fear, however.

Heero has turned to face him, posture still relaxed, but there’s a new tenseness in his set of his mouth. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed. Wufei can’t tell if it’s in reaction to Wufei leaving, or to his unfinished thought.

“I’ve enjoyed my time here with you,” Wufei says. It’s an admission, but not enough. He rolls his eyes at himself, his inability to articulate his feelings, the training to keep them stashed inside his chest to his own detriment. “I’d rather not wait another three years to see you again.”

“Hm,” Heero says. His eyebrows reverse direction, rising up toward his hairline. “I hope you don’t plan to fall out a window again.”

“Nor get shot,” Wufei agrees. “I did mention that I have vacation time now.”

“Oh,” Heero says, tilting his head slightly to the side. “You mean you’d visit.”

“I’d like to,” Wufei says. He’s working hard not to ball his hands into fists at his sides. “If you’d want me to.”

“Of course,” Heero says, like that’s obvious. Like anything about him is obvious. “I find your company pleasing.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before,” Wufei says, a joke at his own expense, but Heero’s mouth twists.

“Most people are idiots,” he says.

“True,” Wufei says. He clears his throat. It shouldn’t be awkward — they’ve had sex several times over the last week and that hasn’t been — but neither of them are adept at this kind of communication. They have been candid about so much, but this is still a stretch. New territory. “If you’re not —”

“I’ll be glad,” Heero says, cutting him off. “I’ll be glad to see you again.”

The way he’s said it, like he’s pushing past some barrier, like it takes work, makes Wufei relax. He reaches forward, suddenly free to, and touches the mark he left just under Heero’s jaw, feeling the movement of Heero’s throat when he swallows.

“I’ll be glad too,” he says, and is unsurprised when Heero steps forward, one hand coming up to wrap in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer and into a kiss. It’s not _I’m in love with you_ , it’s _I like this thing that we’re doing together_. Right now, that’s what Wufei is ready for.

“Let’s go back to the house,” Heero says, mouth skating over Wufei’s cheekbone, humid breath against his skin. Wufei isn’t going to argue.

Back inside, they kiss against the front door, hurried at first and then settling into something easier. Heero is quick to get his hand inside Wufei’s pants, jerking him off. Wufei’s head hits the door with a soft _thunk_ , and Heero takes the opportunity to bite at the column of his throat, leaving little red marks that Sally will absolutely ask him about later. After Wufei comes, messily, still mostly wearing his underwear, he goes to his knees in the entryway, getting his mouth around Heero. He’s sloppy and unpracticed, but he likes the way he can feel Heero thighs tense, working hard to not push further into Wufei’s mouth than Wufei is prepared for. He’s strong and controlled, exactly the way that Wufei remembers, and he groans loudly when he comes, hand fisted in Wufei’s hair, now loose around his shoulders. 

Heero pulls him up for a kiss, almost sweet, and then shoves him gently down the hallway to the shower. This time, when Wufei steps underneath the spray, Heero is right behind him. The unexpected intimacy of that makes Wufei’s breath catch in his throat but he’s quick to duck his head underneath the water, and if Heero hears he doesn’t comment. 

Later, Wufei sits at the kitchen island, watching Heero cook dinner, the two of them talking quietly while they eat, and when Heero excuses himself to work, Wufei settles on the couch with the case file for his newest mission. It feels easy. Lived in. It’s funny how quickly things change.

All of Wufei’s belongings fit easily inside his go bag. He hasn’t thought about his gun much since he crossed the threshold, but it’s still there on the bedside table, easily settled in his duffle next to the extra clip and silencer. Heero is standing in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest when Wufei emerges from the bedroom with his bag slung over his shoulder. 

Heero is driving him as far as the train station, and from there, Wufei will head to the airport. Sally texted him a boarding pass for the following morning, so he has plenty of time to get there.

“You’ll be able to sleep in your own bed again,” Wufei says. “How exciting.”

Heero shrugs. “I’m not picky.”

“I’d never dare to suggest otherwise.” Wufei examines Heero’s posture for clues. He doesn’t seem angry, but he’s not relaxed, either. Wufei follows him outside and into the car, staying quiet while Heero navigates the unpaved driveway and sets off toward civilization.

Wufei lets the silence sit, keeping his eyes on Heero as his hands tighten and loosen on the steering wheel. It’s not like him to have to work up to speaking. He’s always been brazen and brave about everything, even exposing his own trauma. It makes Wufei hold his tongue.

Finally, as they’re crossing into the outskirts of the nearest town, Heero says, “I’ve never tried to extract promises from anyone. I never wanted to. I relied on my own skill and quick thinking alone through the wars and after. It feels odd to want to ask you for anything.”

Wufei’s hands are relaxed in his lap, purposefully non-threatening. “I understand. I still wish you would.”

Heero sighs. It’s maybe the first time Wufei has heard him do so, his exasperation clearly self-directed. “I don’t know what to ask. I don’t know what’s normal.”

“There is no normal,” Wufei says. “There’s only what we want.” He pauses, and then hazards a guess. “Should I call you when I land?”

“Yes,” Heero says, a lessening of tension in his voice. He glances at Wufei then, a slight, crooked smile on his mouth. “This is new for me.”

“Yeah,” Wufei says, snorting. “Me too. We’ll manage.”

Heero’s smile turns into a grin, one Wufei has only seen a handful of times, one that means destruction more than anything else. It’s glorious; it makes Wufei’s chest clench, sends a thrill up through him. “We will. We always do.”


End file.
